Bagatelle

 I remember it well but not the year, the calendar a mystery to me, but it was like any other holiday with Jacqueline and her family, fun and laughter good food, discussions over beer and wine, the dogs and Elsie the cat who hates Jack with a will. She was called Elsie because when she arrived she was small and was referred to as Little Cat; however for the sake of brevity, Aniki my grandaughter, called her LC; now, knowing how language evolves over the centuries, it is not surprising that LC corrupted to Elsie.
They live in a Northamptonshire village which lies next to the A605.A delight of thatch and limestone, one pub a butcher and a shop, a church, swings and round-about ,school and bins for dog waste The nearest town is Oundle, dreamy limestone, stone slates, a public school, church, shops and a wine merchant which features in the brochures of all the local estate agents. Squires and spires surround, a Cathedral in the distance. I once lived here.
I visit my daughter as often as I can, dog walks along the Nene with its locks and weirs, a temptation the dog cannot resist so on the lead he goes. Stand on any hill and we see steeples from the same chisel competing with the sky adding perspective to the landscape along with prosperous farms and twisting lanes worn by horse and carts since, it seems beyond time. Home we sit at the huge pine table its knots making the plates rock and spin, eating, drinking, talking, coloured  pencils and paints, all that makes a house a home. But best of all the sun and garden table, when the church bell chimes eight and darkness falls at ten. Then the laughter ! peels competing with the bell, two dogs and Elsie in restless company, one more beer . . .that makes it five.
There is a zinc bath where the evening's tomatoes grow in untidy twists and whorls nothing tidy here, rhubarb in the flower bed, sweet and sour with the radishes and pink Valerian where I saw my first Humming Bird Hawk Moth, working late during an Indian Summer. The garden is a mess of rabbit hutches chicken sheds children toys and trampoline a greenhouse, aubergines, the cold frames packed with cabbage seedlings in boxes ready for next year which always seems to come. My daughter's laughter rich and generous deepens with the Pinot Noir, her favourite, so I always buy a good one, I get my money's worth when we get to politics, but we never quarrel though miles apart and years between .Alan listens, pours himself another cider, Kira (my great granddaughter) on his knee, felt pens fantasising another story to take to school.
Sometimes we take an early ride to the sea beside the Wash, smooth beaches for the dogs and Kira. The roads are straight with sudden corners, hemmed in with ditches, frustrated heavy lorries on the way to London and Birmingham packed with fruit and vegetables growing in the dark fields below, cottages sinking as the land is drained, farmsteads cosy behind willows-sheltering from the winds that blow from Poland. We do not call in Wisbeach and ignore King's Lynn . . it is a Sunday and we are searching sand and castles, we can call another day when Alan and I come to work, although I am only company, here to watch the fields go by, talk of diesels, motor bikes and the Isle of Man.
Here on the sands Hunstanton, a quiet place ideal for kids, who have simple wishes, do not notice the dross that is seaside, chasing Jack and Pip chasing the waves coming back to thank us for the fun, shaking off the water, until we're soaking too. By six it’s time for home, a tiring drive for Alan into the setting sun. The rivers on the way are now full being tidal up to Peterborough. The tide was coming in when we left Hunstanton and has chased us on our way to home.
An ordinary day ,hardly worth the telling, yet every little helps, added with to tomorrow you’ll soon have a week and if its fine we’ll come again next Sunday.